-_-

I think, for possibly the first time in forever, I don't actually want to be depressed. At all. I'm genuinely uncomfortable feeling like this, and have perhaps inadvertently taken "the first step" by not resigning myself to it. Well, whatever. It should make for an interesting discussion with the doctor tomorrow ^_^

Still... fuck me I feel awful.

It feels so strange having a room, a bed to myself. It's not that I don't like it, and in a lot of respects it's really not that different. Especially considering its previous inhabitant. I just want some social interaction. Or something. I don't know.

I'll do anything. To please anyone.

Who can distract me.

For a few hours.

But it's enabling me

To get

very

aggitated

with

you

stupid

people

who

make

me

feel

worse

Non-conforming as can be

There were ghosts that appeared through fractals,

There was silence that could not compare.

Darkness deep-ruptured and odious,

You were never even there.

Cold chasms blew zephyrs through tunnels

And through the stained strands of my hair,

Until they grew cold and rebounded,

And the silence stagnated the air.

You left me to write a soliloquy

As long as the days are fair,

When the words at last came, condensing your pain,

How I wished you were not there.

February

is no eating month. I might even sneak in some exercise. I can't look at myself any more, it just makes me feel sick. I think if I just stay naked and in front of the mirror I'll lose weight.

If it's not soup, black coffee, gum, fruit or diet soda then SLAP THAT SHIT out of my hands.

Whut

I just woke up from a dream, a little unusual and perhaps a little telling. I was staying in a mansion with two other beautiful women. We would sit by the pool, drink cocktails and go through an extensive wardrobe. I woke up feeling quite content, and promptly fell back to sleep. Then one day some guys came over and started filming and I realised we were all porn stars. When I refused to do double anal, they made me give a rimjob to the guy that was fucking the blonde pornstar doggy-style. Why do my dreams always take a turn for the worst?

Everything seems so hopeless at night, lying in bed in the dark with nothing but myself. I cry like a bitch. The last threads of colour merge with the grey and are lost to the drain. So, I was thinking maybe we could start fresh from the beginning, only less of a mess?

Hi, I'm Khloe.

I don't like chocolate. No one has ever taken me to dinner. I don't dance in the rain but I love being in it. When I find a song I like, I repeat it for days. And days. At the moment it's a toss up between Girlscout and A Praise Chorus. It's been ages since I put any effort into how I looked. I can't stand most extroverts. All my friends are more like drinking buddies. I'm vulgar, I spit swear and puke, wake up naked in unknown places, I drink whiskey, I'm narcissistic, I like riding those dodgy moving cow games, with whiskey in one hand. I bite, I hiss, I fight. I prefer showers to baths. I like sharing them. AND I can't sing but I do it anyway. If I was a man, I would run a mile.

I'm preparing for a Star Wars marathon. :D

Fuck you, NHS. Fuck you.

I just walked down to the hospital, waited for an hour just to book an appointment, and was told by the woman that saw me that they essentially wanted to stop seeing me anyway. I feel as if this is the world repeating endlessly, staggering. It's like reaching the breakthrough of actually trying to fix myself, and then being told I'm fine as I pop pills like candy and trace little red flowers over myself, all of this to go back to square one. Here's some placebos, call us if you need us. But you won't, you'll be fine. You're a big girl now, you know.

Fucking cunts. I feel like killing myself just to prove a point.

Or I could be over-reacting. She could have meant that they would transfer me over to some psychologist and such. Who even knows. God, I fucking hate their little mind games.

I need some serious fucking stress relief. And a glass of wine.

Aching

Seriously, I'm sweating sex. I can feel the pure fuck coursing through my veins, a delicious and intoxicating mix of chemicals that plunge straight down to make me violent and wet. I've been pulled and pinched and bitten and clawed. Everything is twitching. You are cruel.

Tres Parisienne

It's a cold over-cast morning. It's not the kind of day that inspires you to do anything, as the sky is aching with rain and drear. It's a day to curl up in bed, pull the covers over your head and press your nose into someone's chest. My someone is sleeping on the other side of the river and it feels like such a vast expanse when everything is so grey. In the idyllic fields of my mind, I am in the little flat in France baking bread and cookies, drinking wine and closing the blinds as the sunlight pools on the warm wooden floor. There are hanging baskets with vines spilling over, consuming the balcony rails. I can't help it, I'm a hopeless romantic stuck in miserable England and my dreams are simple.

I was starting to wonder if the long string of overdoses has any correlation to the time of year. Everyone knows all the worst things happen in winter, and are worsened by memories of weather. I want to believe that all I need is a little sunshine to feel good about. But between you and me, I get more miserable in summer just to be contrary. I want to work with pastry. The weather is perfect - absolutely fucking freezing. Butter loves winter. Khloe loves butter.

You know what I really want for Christmas? Le Creuset pans. A heavy knife with a beautiful balance to it. A sharpening stone. Little tartine rings. And of course, some decent whiskey. Perhaps my favourite Spice Tree blend. I'm more expensive than I thought :) I know however, I will be inundated with bountiful free nothing. This reminds me, I should probably make some cards for the OH's mother and get her some wine. Gotta get her to love me enough to feel obliged to buy me something :D